


l'amour a distance

by ghostofgatsby



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Bruises, Drinking, Guns, Hangover, Kissing, M/M, Melancholy, Multi, One Night Stands, Robbery, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-19 04:09:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7344226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostofgatsby/pseuds/ghostofgatsby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>None of them are sure how it happened.<br/>It doesn't matter who kissed who first. They are a little more than tipsy, and have nothing more to lose.<br/>All three had things haunting them that they didn’t speak of.<br/>All three were looking to get away- so they did.<br/>And for one night, they had each other.</p>
<p>Bad decisions, three men at the end of their limits, and one night in a shitty motel room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	l'amour a distance

**Author's Note:**

> A short experimental thing.  
> Not related to the runaway hats AU. I don’t know what kind of AU this is. It’s similar, but...I’m thinking this is more of a Thelma & Louise/The Big Lebowski vibe. weird 90s neo noir/road trip films. Not...as weird as The Big Lebowski, though.
> 
> title comes from the poem of the same name, by Najia Khaled, aka toxic-nebulae on deviantart.  
> http://toxic-nebulae.deviantart.com/art/l-amour-a-distance-602119941
> 
> cw: Drinking, Alcoholism, Hangovers, Stealing, Guns, non-explicit sex, Bruises  
> if I need to tag anything else, let me know.
> 
> reblog: https://ghostofgatsby13.wordpress.com/2016/07/15/lamour-a-distance-ghostofgatsby

They meet at a motel off the interstate, each stumbling bleary-eyed and half awake into cheap wooden doors. Listening to a baby cry half a room away from theirs.

The lights make Trott's eyes hurt. The glow is sickly yellow, like a fever, like the ache behind his temples from a late night spent drinking.

Ross scrubs his face with a hand, feeling the rough texture of five o’clock stubble. It’s been longer than a week without a razor. He feels less like himself.

A plastic shopping bag hangs off his wrist. He'd bought new clothes- but not something he would normally wear. The superdry hoodie and ripped jeans he'd had for who knows how long were now in the bag. He's dressed in a black tuxedo, bow tie and everything.

It's the last big purchase Ross made with his credit card. It'll be the last he'll make in a long time, but at least he looks good.

He'd emptied his bank account of the last few dollars that afternoon. The numbers on the display are burnt into the inside of his eyelids. $0.00. Zero dollars, zero cents. He's at the end of wherever he was trying to be. Out of luck now, and out of money.

Ross is trying to unlock his door across from Trott.

Trott is leaving his room in search of something to stop his head from pounding.

Smith is the one who draws their attention.

Before they can open their doors, he's walking down the hallway, whistling.

Trott nearly glares, hangover making his mood rotten.

The grocery bag in Smith’s arms rustles. Containers and bottles clack together inside it. The flip flop of his sandals squeak across the musty, flattened carpet.

“Morning, mate.” He greets the two watching him as he walks past.

Ross grunts. Trott says nothing.

“Fine day here in the middle of nowhere, huh?” He chuckles. His too-bright grin hides a slight twinge of worry in his eyes.

“Do- do you have coffee in that bag?” Ross asks, clearing his throat. He's thirsty. He'd missed the motel's free breakfast this morning, and there's no way in hell he's drinking the tap water here.

Smith stops, turning around to face them. “Yeah, mate. Both of you fancy a cup? I've got booze, if rum and whiskey's your cream and sugar.” He looks between the two of them.

“Yeah. Thanks.” Ross says. He stops trying to unlock his door.

Trott doesn’t bother locking his.

Smith continues to his room, and Ross and Trott follow. They watch him unlock his door and push inside.

"Make yourself comfortable." Smith says with a smile.

Trott sighs in the blissful air conditioning, quickly crossing the room and standing by the window.

Ross turns on the tv. He tosses his bag at the floor (to be later kicked under the bed and lost, but the rest of everything else he had is gone, anyway- that just happened to be the last of it).

Smith turns his back on them and unpacks his groceries onto the small counter next to the tv. He stashes the pistol hidden under his belt into the empty bag, and stuffs that at the back of the counter. He doesn't want either of them asking too many questions.

He picks up plastic cups off the nearby tray, and gestures to the coffee pot plugged into the wall. "Coffee or booze? Or both? I'm Smith, by the way."

He looks over his shoulder.

Ross is sitting on the edge of the rumpled bed. Trott's leaning against the window, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"I’m Ross. And coffee, please. Black, two sugar." Ross toes off his dress shoes and loosens his tie, at once aware of his seemingly rich attire.

Smith nods at him, and raises an eyebrow at Trott.

Trott sighs. His tired eyes meet Smith's. "What've you got?"

"Rum and whiskey." Smith steps away from the faux bar and waves at the bottles like a gameshow host.

Trott lowers his hand. His face stays pinched. He’s not a rum or whiskey man, but it doesn’t matter at this point.

Ross' eyes widen at the make and proof of the alcohol. "Damn. Expensive shit." He mutters. The whiskey alone was probably worth a couple hundred dollars. How much money did Smith have? For being dressed like a tourist, he didn’t act like one...

"Only the best, mate." Smith chuckles. “Spent too many college years drinking piss-water, got sick of it.” He clears his throat.

"Rum." Trott decides. Cheaper of the two. "Straight."

"Hope that's not your orientation, too." Smith winks. He pours them both several fingers, and starts up Ross' coffee. Trott gingerly sits next to Ross on the bed and takes Smith’s proffered cup.

“What’s your name?” Smith asks.

“Trott.”

Smith pretends not to gawk while Trott downs the drink like it’s nothing. He sits down on the other side of the bed while the water in the coffee pot boils. They watch shitty daytime tv for awhile, and over time, the volume of rum in the bottle lowers.

 

All three had things haunting them that they didn’t speak of.

Smith carried a gun, and guilt, and stolen credit cards.

(He wanted to be forgiven. He wanted something else to fill the gap.)

Trott drank too much, because he felt too much, and didn’t want to feel anything.

(He wanted to start over. He wanted starting over to be permanent.)

Ross had nothing left, nothing he wanted, nobody he wanted to go back to.

(He wanted to be someone else. He wanted to be somebody new.)

All three were looking to get away.

So they did.

And for one night, they had each other.

 

None of them are sure how it happened.

It doesn't matter who kissed who first. They are a little more than tipsy, and have nothing more to lose.

Ross loses himself in the feeling of Trott's lips against his. Trott tastes of too much alcohol, but Ross doesn't care. Smith kisses his neck, biting marks, and it aches in a strange way. In the same way Smith’s fingers feel on his hips, the same way Trott’s hand feels in his hair.

They are a mess of limbs, liquor-soaked, tangled in the sheets. Clothes are haphazardly thrown. No one remembers to turn the tv off. It doesn’t matter.

(They are too drunk to pay attention to the news. Of a five-and-dime grocery store armed robbery that happened earlier that day. Too distracted to notice the name of the grocery store matched the logo on the crumpled bag on the counter.)

The afternoon that had become evening turns into a late night. Between rounds of sex and more drinks, they order takeout. Smith pays. Ross and Trott don’t protest. (They’re too busy kissing, anyway. Too busy laughing into each other’s mouths like nothing was wrong. Too busy yelling at Smith to answer the door to get the food when he was sandwiched between them.)

The day after, Ross will stare at himself in the bathroom mirror. He’ll count the bruises, press a thumb against the worst of the marks and imagine how Smith pinned him to the bed with Trott beneath him. He’ll shudder because he liked it, shudder because this isn’t the first time, and he thought the time before was the last. But he'll close his eyes and relive the moments.

Him fucking Trott. Smith fucking him. The feeling of Trott's nails digging into his back. The sight of Trott going down on Smith. The feeling of them kissing him. The sight of them kissing each other.

The day after, Ross will open his eyes and go back into the bedroom. His head will pound from a hangover. His suit will lie in a crumpled, dirty heap on the floor, and his wallet and credit card will be missing.

Smith and Trott will be gone, one before the other, though he won't know they went separately. For all he guesses, they ran off together. For all he knows. (He doesn’t know anything, or so he’ll tell the police when they come knocking.)

The empty bottle of rum will be left, and the whiskey will be gone.

It won’t matter.

The day after, Ross will sit back down on the edge of the bed and drink the rest of the cold, bitter coffee by himself.


End file.
